


imperium in imperio

by Doesyourmotherknowyoureanon



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, mild psychological horror, wiretapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 10:45:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7529641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doesyourmotherknowyoureanon/pseuds/Doesyourmotherknowyoureanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America wakes up listening to Germany.</p>
            </blockquote>





	imperium in imperio

**Author's Note:**

> Okay with: translations and podifcs. Please just ask my permission first, and link me when you're done!
> 
> Not okay with: having my fic used in articles about fans or fandom.
> 
> 3/25/17- Oh my god. When I was researching the "state within a state" concept, I just thought it would be an interesting concept to play with in Hetalia canon. I didn't expect for it to be a conversational topic in the US's current political landscape. I didn't expect our current (though hopefully not for long) president to make a tactless joke about the event alluded to in this fic to Chancellor Merkel, either. No offense was intended.

America wakes up listening to Germany. There’s no windows in the room, but he knows it’s late because he’s sitting in pajama bottoms, a stretched out t-shirt, and his bald eagle slippers. He has no idea how he got there. Germany’s deep voice sounds soothing compared to Prussia’s harsh one, and a female voice joins the mix… is that Germany’s boss on the line with them? America knows he should hang up or stop listening (and why is he eavesdropping on an old-fashioned phone when there’s more modern equipment right in front of him?), but he’s pulled back in when his mind drifts off. 

They’re talking about some domestic policy thing that America doesn’t need to know, and he’s kinda pissed, because Germany tends to talk foreign policy before he talks domestic; they’re near the end. But he’s more pissed that he’s here in the asscrack middle of the night risking one of his best diplomatic alliances to listen to a phone conversation that won't have anything useful. They’ll probably start talking about whatever meal they’re going to have next after this. But then, Prussia brings Russia’s boss up, and Germany’s boss has a lot to say. Thank God the phone’s recording for him, because America’s still disoriented like he’s drunk even though he didn’t drink anything yesterday. 

Rubbing his eyes with his free hand and stifling a yawn America wonders how he passed NSA security this late. He has top secret clearance, but even he has to schedule a trip here a week in advance. He hates that; he told Ledgett a million times that his predecessor was the first to require clearance from him, and that it was a waste of time and resources to monitor him, but he never listens. 

He pats his pockets for car keys, finds nothing. How the fuck did he get here? For serious, _how the fuck_. He's glad he woke up on his own soil instead of in another country’s house (Pakistan is always furious when that happens), but he still hates the missing time.

America and Germany agreed not to listen to each other’s private phone calls. America knows he’s a little (okay, a lot) nosy, but he doesn’t break agreements like that with other Nations unless there’s a good reason. He’s always clear with his top-level intelligence that he doesn’t like to do shit like this in peacetime, and they push back every fucking time, even after America explains that it keeps communication open between the two countries themselves, no matter what their governments are doing. “But aren’t you the government too?” they inevitably ask. 

His entire arm feels like lead when he tries to lift his elbow off the chair. They’re still talking about Russia’s boss. He tries to pull the receiver away from his ear, but it feels stuck there. He pulls harder, but he feels like his ear will rip off with the phone. America concentrates as hard as he can through the grogginess, and leans forward. It feels like it takes a million years, but he inches forward like a skyscraper bending to a tornado. _Closer, closer_. He’s straining with the effort it takes to lean out of his chair, and he’s not a weak guy. Finally, America tips over, taking the phone with him.

“What was that?” asks Germany’s boss. America thought the speaker was disabled. His body won’t fully cooperate, but he still hangs up in time to not hear anything but Prussia’s “Fuck you, whoever you are.”

America's shaking too much to stand up. His mouth tastes like coins smell and his senses feel muffled, like he's wrapped in blackout curtains, but he broke the control. He passes out amidst a tangle of wires.

He’s discovered by the time the sun comes up. While his top NSA dogs try to convince him that it was necessary, America doesn’t hide his post-immurement nausea, spitting up into Ledgett’s trash can without even using a plastic bag as a liner, _so there_. 

His boss is marginally more sympathetic, even though he agrees with Ledgett. 

“We needed to know what was going on,” he says after handing America a Diet Sprite. He sighs. “Last night’s conversation wasn’t the only one we listened in on, and now their intelligence is looking for more evidence of wiretapping. They’re really pissed off.”

America moans, because he gets it. He really does. Information isn’t only power, it’s safety, and America needs to keep his people safe. A bit of nosiness is expected among Nations; hell, someone's probably reading his email right now. The problem is, America crossed their line, the implicit, unspoken rules among their kind, and there will be consequences beyond Germany and Prussia not hanging out with him after the next world meeting. 

America summons his best Disappointed Face. “Way to sneak behind my back, bro. Don’t tell them to do stuff like that unless you tell them how you want it to be done, because they use me when they don’t want to get their hands dirty.” 

His boss seems to shrink before saying “I didn’t know they were doing it either.”

“Fuuuuuck,” exhales America, melting into the couch.

“We need to do some damage control. Is she talking to you?” America asks. He’s trying to think as fast as he can, but his head hurts and his brain feels resistant to making new thoughts.

“We’re setting up a phone call.” 

“Cool, cool,” says America. “I sent Germany and Prussia an email this morning, and I'mma call them right after lunch.” The mention of lunch sent America’s stomach growling. His boss smiles when he hears it.

“Great, talk to me afterwards,” he says.

America saluted only a little ironically “Right-o.”

America manages to keep down a few hamburgers without upchucking. He waits a little longer than he normally would before calling them though, just in case. He even writes down some good things to say, like _I’m sorry_ and _I invaded your privacy, and that’s wrong_ , which Canada says he always does before important phone calls.

Germany picks up on the third ring.

“Germany and Prussia.” Fuck, he was hoping it wouldn’t be a conference call.

“Hey, it’s America.”

There’s a long pause before Prussia greets him.

Before they can start speaking, America launches into his three quarter-assed apology (the whole-assed one was in the email). Canada’s advice is really helping him; he’ll thank him later, if he remembers.

“Don’t do it again,” says Germany at the end of America’s spiel. America wished he could give an honest guarantee, but lied through his teeth because he didn’t want to say how hard it was for him to stop. That would be weak.

Prussia had more to say, mostly in the vein of “I didn’t help you drive off England for you to repeat his behavior.” 

“I agree,” said America. The air wasn’t entirely clear yet, but they had a okay chat about the next world meeting and Berlitz’s overgrooming problem before saying their goodbyes.

The next day, he finds out, in one of England’s newspapers of all places, that his boss lied. He knew what was going on. America wishes he could feel something more than apathy as he shovels a Pop-Tart in his face and scrolls down to the comments section, but exhaustion replaced his optimism that morning.

After his coffee and shower, he finally deals with it. He dials his boss’s personal number and leaves a single, disconsolate _“Bro.”_ in his voicemail. He breaches the usual rules, and leaves an apologetic voicemail on Germany’s boss’s phone too, only slightly longer. “I’m sorry my-- _I_ lied.”

As the days pass, America feels more like his usual self. His boss apologizes for lying to him. America shrugs him off, saying he knows it’s part of the job. He appreciates it though. Germany’s boss doesn’t call him back, but he wasn’t expecting anything from her. Prussia sent him a text saying she got the message, and that was more than enough. He even makes his weekly prank call to Dick Cheney a day early. 

He can’t relax, though. America buries himself in work, preparing for the world meeting and asking the Library of Congress if they need any extra hands on deck so many times that they actually take him up on the offer, despite last time’s Peanut Butter Incident.

America’s back aches from shelving for two shifts straight, but it’s the good kind of ache. He finally feels content, but maybe that was the extra after-work beer he treated himself to. Yawning, he turns off the tv and heads upstairs. He wraps the blanket that Jackie chose for him when they redid his room tight around him and finally, finally fell into a heavy sleep.

He wakes up in a control room, sweating and shaking like he has a fever.The screen in front of him shows desert sand and whirring propellers, but he doesn’t feel the subtle rocking of a plane and the controls are all wrong anyway. He keeps completely still, eyes glued to the screen in trepidation. His arm inches forward, and nausea coils in his gut. He knows his arm is probably a lost cause, but maybe he can barf on the control panel. He thinks of every gross thing he’s seen (and he’s seen a shitton of gross things), but his stomach remains unmoved by his efforts and his arm creeps forward. Against his will, he presses the button marked ‘downward descent’.

**Author's Note:**

> Concrit is welcome.


End file.
